A soft, sliding sound outside the door. Chess froze, nailed in place before she realized the creeping cold wasn't spreading up her fingers. More stealthy sounds, someone scraping at her door. A slight squeal, as if a key was turning.

Holy fuck. She was off the bed, as quickly and quietly as she could. Crossed to the shallow stone dish carved out of the wall and reached out, snapping the thin wax taper. Her sneakers made slight squeaking sounds as she turned carefully, shielding the flame with her cupped hand.

It was as close to a weapon as she could think of. And if there wasn't one of the Unspeakable outside her door, she might just have a chance. She ghosted across the stone floor, wondering if there were any trolls around here, and put her back to the wall beside the door, cupping the frail flame with her shaking hand.

More scraping.

Who's on first, she thought, shoving down the urge to giggle. What's on second. And I Don't Know's on third. I come not to praise Caesar, but to bury him.

The door squeaked as it swung inward. “Hey, baby,” a familiar voice crept into the dark. “Let's teach you some manners—what the fuck?"

He probably sensed something wrong, because he shoved the door open, banging it against the wall with more force than was necessary, probably to make sure she wasn't hiding behind it. Chess leapt, her back leg providing leverage as she button-hooked around the corner, jabbing with the candle's sullen gleam and hot wax. Ohgodpleasepleaseplease—

She got lucky. Paul let out a short blurt of surprise, dropping into a defensive crouch that brought his face right to the level of the candle. The thin taper flew forward, and smacked him right in the eye with hot wax.

"Agh! You bitch!"

Chess almost froze. But months of practicing and training with Al rose under her skin, and she moved instinctively, snapping a low kick to his knee, a yell bursting from her own throat. She was weak, shaky, and starving, but she had surprise on her side; Paul went down hard. Chess lost her own balance, not expecting him to fold so quickly. The candle skittered out of her hand as the torch Paul carried flew down the darkened hall. Another miracle intervened—her knee landed on something suspiciously soft near his groin, and his yell abruptly became more of a strangled squeak.

Her fist flew, a rabbit-punch not to the face—her hands were too small—but to the throat, the best place to land a punch. She could still hear Al yelling, if they can't breathe, they can't fight! Go for the throat shot! Neck, neck, neck, and I ain't talkin about kissin!

There was a sickening crunch, and he started to thrash. Something clipped her hard on the side of the head. Chess fell, sprawling, barking her elbow on stone and letting out a hoarse, pained cry. Ouch. Not another shiner, please, I don't want another black eye. She scrambled blindly to get up, to run away, to use the advantage she'd been given for all it was worth.

She managed to make it up to her knees, tasting copper, and looked down at Paul. He'd stopped moving and lay on his back, a shallow whistling sound coming from parted lips. His eyes had rolled back into his head, and he looked very, very unhappy.

A useless sob hitched in her throat, her head throbbed with pain. Adrenaline made her stomach sour and her hands shaky. Now what do I do? Think, Chessie! Think!

Logic dictated that he had to have some weapon on him. Logic further dictated that he wasn't supposed to be here without one of the Unspeakable with him. Then again, he outweighed her. Maybe they'd thought she wasn't a match for him. Or maybe he thought he was more than a match for her, and was up to no good.

Yet another fool underestimating a librarian, she thought, rancid giggles rising in her chest. Get up, Chess. God only knows how much time you have. Get up and drag him into that room, take whatever he's got, keys, weapons, anything you can use. Then get the hell out of here.

Where exactly would she go? These were tunnels, for God's sake, and she had no idea where she was. And fumbling around in the dark…?

Better to fumble around in the dark than wait for them to come back and kill me. The thought forced her to get moving, mechanically, her fingers numb and her legs unsteady.

Paul was a heavy deadweight as she dragged him into the room, she'd knocked him out. A quick digging in his pockets by the pale golden light of the candle, relit from the smoking torch, turned up a heavy metal key. He also had her knife in a sheath clipped to his belt. You bastard. Why did you have my knife? She took both, the knife buzzing in her hand, and yanked the door closed. On the hallway side of it there was a single keyhole. She stuck the key in and tugged at it, thinking she could break it in the lock… but then she thought about being locked in that room with no light, and rested her head against the cold heaviness. The door seemed made out of something alien, too cold to be wood and too light to be iron. It sounded like glass when she tapped it from the outside.

She yanked the key out of the lock and stuck it in her pocket, clipped her knife to the waistband of her jeans, and took a deep breath, holding the rescued torch high and hearing the sputtering hiss of the flame at its far end. Her other hand held the candle, saved against the torch's demise. Which way do I go? Right or left?

It was a fine time to wish she'd heard from which end the demons came from. Come on, Chess. Right or left? Either way, I'm probably equally fucked.

She finally turned left, for no reason other than she'd once read that people lost in the woods usually ended up making turns in the direction of their dominant hand. It was as good a decision as any, at this point. Her knife buzzed against her hip, sending prickles up her spine.

Two thoughts took on uncomfortable dimensions as she started tentatively down the corridor. The first was predictable enough: I wish Ryan was here. I'd feel a whole lot better about this.

The second thought was chilling: "Teach me some manners?” What was Paul going to do to me? And how long do I have before they discover I'm gone?

The torch died a short while afterward, she managed to light the thin tapering candle from its last sputters and finally tossed the charred hunk of wood aside into one of the weird rooms that opened off on either side of the hall at regular intervals. Some of the rooms had chains hanging from the ceiling over round holes in the floor, and some had other chains attached to stone walls by rusting staples. Other rooms had items she couldn't even begin to imagine the use of, except that they looked painful.

It was starting to look as if she'd had it easy in her room, being fed and watered. Just like the fatted calf, she thought with a shiver.

Her knife kept buzzing. Demons everywhere. It was probably only a matter of time before they caught her.

Will you stop it, Chess? Things are actually looking pretty good, they're looking okay, why don't you just relax?

The candle had burned down almost to her fingers when she found something that could either be very good or very bad: a dead-end intersection with another tunnel, this one lit with ruddy torchlight. Torches meant someone used this corridor, which meant she had a higher chance of being discovered.

For a few moments she simply stood in the archway, her eyes becoming adjusted to the relatively greater light. She blinked, then blew out her candle. Save it for later. If there is a later.

She had to decide which way to go. She peered around the corner, looked each way. The featureless hall stretched in either direction, starred with the fuming torches, and she wondered if she was going to succumb to carbon monoxide poisoning from the flames. How do they ventilate this shit? The laughter returned, crawling up her throat and filling her mouth with bitterness. Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know's on third, and Chessie's underground. Get it? Get it, Chess?